


You're finally here and I'm a mess

by Havokftw



Series: He's more myself than I am. [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Abuse, Prostitution, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 13:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14425929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/pseuds/Havokftw
Summary: Shacking up with a jailbait ex-hooker—yeah.Not exactly how he thought he’d be spending the rest of his life.Seungcheol’s gut does a little flop of realization. His heart lurches into flight and jams in his throat; his career unspools behind his eyes again, like a home movie playing while people talk over it, and he can just see his Captain's face when he hears about this.But, this isn’t just anybody he’s bringing into his life—this is Jihoon.His soulmate.





	You're finally here and I'm a mess

When Seungcheol parks the car and kills the engine, he finally notices how fidgety Jihoon is. How he keeps darting glances at the him.

“You—you don’t have to do this.” Jihoon finally stammers when they’re standing inside the building, and Seungcheol has pushed the button for the elevator.

“What do you mean?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon sighs, looking at him with eyes that aren’t hiding anything at all.

“Just because we’ve got these marks, doesn’t mean you _owe_ me anything. You’ve obviously got your life together and I….. _don’t_. You’re a cop—and I know you’ve already done things you’re not meant to tonight because you feel obligated, but I’m telling you, you don’t have to.”

Seungcheol frowns as he runs that over in his head.

Shacking up with a jailbait ex-hooker— _yeah_.

Not exactly how he thought he’d be spending the rest of his life.

Seungcheol’s gut does a little flop of realization. His heart lurches into flight and jams in his throat; his career unspools behind his eyes again, like a home movie playing while people talk over it, and he can just see his Captain's face when he hears about this.

But, this isn’t just anybody he’s bringing into his life—this is _Jihoon_.  

His soulmate.

Jihoon who reminds Seungcheol of a stray kitten that has followed him home, and God help him, but Seungcheol wants to keep him. Look after him. Make him his own.

“Jihoon?”

“Yeah?” Jihoon says softly.

“Shut up.” Seungcheol says so soberly, Jihoon laughs.

“I just wanted to give you an out.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, holding out a hand. “I don’t want an out.”

Jihoon’s dark eyes turn bright, excited. It shaves years off his already youthful-looking visage.

He accepts Seungcheol’s extended hand and lets himself be led into the elevator.

* * *

 

Jihoon stops in the living room and looks around, brows knitting. "This is your place?"

Seungcheol understands what he means: nothing in the apartment is Seungcheol's style.

Most of the décor had been picked out by his ex-wife—actually.

She liked velvet couches and chalk painted wood and pastel colours; she liked to buy enormous old pieces of furniture in flea markets and then pay shady guys to drop them off at the apartment in the early hours while Seungcheol was still half-asleep in bed, scaring him to death (and them as well, when Seungcheol came out of the bedroom with a gun in hand).

He hadn’t really bothered to replace any of the furniture since she left.

If he thinks about it, Seungcheol isn't sure he's ever had a proper house-guest here, and Mingyu doesn't count because all they do is use the place as a way station between bars when Mingyu's in town.

“My wife left me three years ago. I haven’t really bothered to change the décor since.” Seungcheol says, feeling a little uncomfortable telling this to Jihoon.

Jihoon looks surprised. "Huh. Did she think you were married to the job or something? That’s a thing with cops—right?"

“No—she just wanted to sleep with my friend.” Seungcheol admits with a shrug.

Jihoon raises an eyebrow, but doesn't pursue it.

* * *

 

Seungcheol gives him a brief tour of the place, gives him the spare key and shows him how to punch in the security code for the front door.

Jihoon shifts awkwardly where he stands, and weathers his bottom lip as he watches him, waiting for the other shoe to drop probably.

“You live here alone?” Jihoon asks, gesturing to the apartment as a whole.

“Yeah. Well—not anymore obviously. You’re here now.”

“And you’re okay with just—giving me this key,” He murmurs, twisting said key between his fingers. “Letting me stay even though we just met a few hours ago?”

“Yes, Jihoon. It’s more than okay.” Seungcheol smiles, and lets his knuckles brush the baby smooth skin of Jihoon’s jawline, the fine structure of his cheeks. There’s a bright red cut on his cheekbone, skin bruised where Seungcheol had shoved him up against the alleyway wall. “You got a cut there—Sorry, I was rough with you.”

Jihoon's brows knit into a scowl, and Seungcheol has to fight not to smile. “You were _arresting_ me. And—I hit you first, or did you forget?”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He murmurs, then leans in to kiss the bruise on Jihoon’s cheek.

It’s just a light brush of lips, barely there pressure, but Seungcheol can feel a shiver rolling across Jihoon’s flesh, goose bumps pushing to the surface.

“Should have found you sooner, should have been protecting you from all this.” Seungcheol adds, laying his lips lightly on the darkened skin in another gentle kiss.

Jihoon's breath hitches, comes out in a rush that sounds like his name.

When Seungcheol leads him to the bathroom and pulls out the first aid kid from under the cabinet, Jihoon sighs and shakes his head.

“That’s really not necessary. I’ve had worse.”

But he still lets Seungcheol swipe an antiseptic wipe over the busted-open skin on his cheekbone, making a face at the slight stinging.

The wipe Seungcheol uses comes away filthy, and not just with blood. There’s soot and sweat and grime—days, maybe _weeks_ worth of the stuff.  

“When’s the last time you showered?” Seungcheol asks, aghast. It's clear from the look on Jihoon's face that his mothering hen tone is _not_ appreciated, “Don’t answer that, just—strip off those clothes. I’ll get you some clean ones, and a hot shower will help you sleep better anyway.”

Jihoon appears to be considering the pros and cons of the suggestion, but eventually Seungcheol hears a resigned, “ _Okay_.”

He doesn’t seem to be making any moves to undress though, but his eyes flick to the bathroom door pointedly.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure he’s asking Seungcheol to leave.

“What? You want me to leave?” Seungcheol says, giving him a disbelieving smile. “Oh—so _now_ you’re suddenly shy. You’ve certainly changed your tune in— _what_?—three hours.”

“It’s not that. I just—” Jihoon sighs, and his eyes are unsteady as he catches Seungcheol’s. “— _never mind_.”

Seungcheol watches Jihoon struggle with his shirt buttons for a few moments before he gives in and steps forward.

He turns the shower on as hot as he thinks Jihoon can stand it, then as clinically as possible, moves to help him undress. He does his best to uncouple the shell buttons on Jihoon's shirt, but his fingers feel too large for such a delicate task and his attention is soon re-routed as the shirt halves part

It’s clear now that Jihoon’s reluctance to undress in front of him wasn’t stemming from a sudden modest streak. _No_.

He was trying to hide something from Seungcheol. _Bruises_.

Seungcheol finishes unbuttoning Jihoon's shirt, eases it off his shoulders, and gets his first good look at Jihoon's chest, which looks like a study in yellow and purple by some abstract painter.

“Jesus Christ, Jihoon.” The words flow out on the tide of a shaky exhale.

“It's not as bad as it looks.”

It's the first mildly pacifying thing Jihoon's said since he walked through the door, and Seungcheol can't help the laugh that bursts out, skittish and too high, because it looks like someone decided to use Jihoon as a punching bag.

For _days_.

There are bruises layered upon bruises in shades ranging from ripe plum to near black.

“Well, I'm so happy it's not as bad as it looks,” Seungcheol allows before his anger takes over as he strips Jihoon of his belt and pants, because the bruising isn't limited to Jihoon's chest, “because it looks  _fucking_  awful! What the hell happened?”

Jihoon shrugs, folding his hands over his naked chest. “Didn’t meet quota one night, reckless eyeballing, mouthed off at my John, didn’t check in on time. Lots of reasons.”

Seungcheol clenches his fist against the wave of rising anger. “What’s his name?”

Jihoon straightens a little. “Who?”

“What do you mean _who_? Don’t play dumb Jihoon—your _pimp_. I want his name.” Seungcheol seethes.

Jihoon’s back has gone from straight to tense. “Why? So you can go do something stupid like beat him up and get yourself into deep shit? I don’t think so.”

Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.  

Beating the guy isn’t enough. He wants _revenge_ for Jihoon. Blood. Yeah—he wants to beat the ever-loving shit out of the guy, but he wants to blow out his kneecaps too, and then perhaps exile him to the sewers exclusively inhabited by shit, piss, and poisonous rats.

Though he’s sure the guy would fit right in.

“Yes.” Seungcheol admits seriously and is surprised when Jihoon laughs.

Even under his messy hair, Seungcheol can tell he’s arching an eyebrow. “I can’t believe out of the two of us _I’m_ going to be the smarter one.”

 _“I want his name.”_ Seungcheol repeats forcefully.

There’s a slow intake of breath, and Jihoon’s eyes are taking an intense interest in the door. His voice is low and determined when he speaks again. “No. Just forget it—it’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

Seungcheol opens his mouth to say something, but Jihoon stops him by choosing that moment to shuck off the rest of his clothes and  _that’s_  a sight arresting enough to derail Seungcheol’s train of thought.

Jihoon steps unsteadily out of the pool of fabric, ignoring Seungcheol's slack jawed staring. He grabs the shower's hand bar and holds on when he steps beneath the stream of hot water. An involuntary hiss escapes as the first droplets hit his battered flesh, but then Jihoon drops his head and seems to relax fractionally.

His bruises look livid against his heated, pink skin, and Seungcheol wants to take someone apart.

He's been in fights, sure, and he's even been knocked about a fair bit when a case goes pear-shaped and back-up is late to arrive, but he's never been systematically beaten the way Jihoon's been.

It physically _hurts_ to look at him.

Seungcheol can't look at him without wanting to hit something and there's apparently been far too much of that going on already, so Seungcheol does the only thing he can—since he can’t go kill someone right this moment.

He picks up Jihoon's clothes and folds them neatly, pulls out towels from the airing cupboard as well as his softest T-shirt and jogging bottoms. Probably the fewer things Jihoon has to drag over his skin, the better.

When he re-enters the bathroom, Jihoon’s shutting off the water and stumbling out of the shower, like a rather clumsy if lovely Aphrodite.

Instead of accepting the towel from Seungcheol’s outstretched hand however, he just steps closer, then closer _still_ , until Seungcheol can see the beading of water droplets over his flushed face from mere inches away.

Seungcheol drops his arms around him, draws the towel up over his shoulders and tugs Jihoon closer with it. It’s more intimacy than he should be encouraging, but Jihoon seems to _want_ this.

Seungcheol rubs him dry slowly, reverently—utterly absorbed in the small, beautiful details; the rosy turn of Jihoon's cheek, the darkness of his pupils and the easy slouch of lean shoulders, the plump obscene pink of his mouth.

He stops when Jihoon is as dry as he’s going to get standing in a steamy bathroom, and tucks the towel around Jihoon’s shoulders, smoothing hands down his arms.

Jihoon’s a little breathless now, and Seungcheol forces himself to let go.

It’s an effort.

“Uhm. I’ve left you some spare clothes on the bed for you to wear.” Seungcheol says awkwardly.

“Thanks.” Jihoon says, taking the towel and wrapping it tight round his waist.

He stalks out of the bathroom with his ribs standing out a little under lean flesh, fringe plastered over half of his face.

Seungcheol lingers in the bathroom deliberately to give him some space; brushing his teeth and flossing, listening to the burble of the draining shower and the fainter sounds of Jihoon slipping into his clothes in the room beyond.

By the time Seungcheol emerges Jihoon’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, swimming in clothes too many sizes too big for him and if Seungcheol’s not mistaken—he’s shivering.

“You’re cold.” Seungcheol gasps, stepping closer on instinct.

“Just a little.” Jihoon says, smiling just enough for a dimple to appear in one cheek. “I haven’t had a hot shower in a while. The temperature drop after takes a while to get used to.”

Seungcheol struggles to hold the frown back off his face at that little revelation.

“Come on—I’ll get you something warm to drink.”

* * *

 

Seungcheol ushers Jihoon into the living room and sits him down on the couch so he can fetch him a drink.

“I’m not a baby,” Jihoon protests huffily, as he watches Seungcheol warm up some milk on the stove. “I can have caffeine before bedtime!”

“You’re not drinking cola again. You practically drank a litre of the stuff when you were eating and it’s not good for your teeth.” Is Seungcheol’s unsettlingly adult reply. “Besides, I’m not just giving you warm milk—I’m making you hot chocolate.”

Jihoon accepts this with a minimum of grumbling and even manages a ‘Thank you officer’ when Seungcheol hands him his hot chocolate.

“ _Please_ —just call me Seungcheol. Or Cheol for short.” Seungcheol says, taking a seat in the armchair across from the couch, “The way you say officer really….”

_Turns me on._

Changing the subject, that’s what needs to happen, and fast.

Seungcheol grabs the first topic that occurs to him. “So, how did you end up turning tricks? You gave me an abridgement of events back in the squad car—but I’m not sure how much of that was true.”

And Jihoon, thank fuck, deftly takes the hint and goes right on talking, about his childhood in Busan, about his loving mother and doting grandparents and his alcoholic, dead beat father. About how his mother passed away when he was eight and how his abusive father refused to let him see any of his family. Seungcheol learns that Jihoon ran away from home for the first time when he was ten, and the last time when he was fourteen. How he was rehomed by social services to money grabbing foster parents who didn’t give a shit what he did as long as they got their cheques in the post. How he loved music and art, but got in with the wrong crowd at school and was expelled. How he followed his older boyfriend to the city and was promptly abandoned to fend for himself.

Unwittingly, Jihoon fleshes out the grave bits of information from his life in the city and then some.

Seungcheol now has enough information to know what part of town he lives—who’s most likely to be his pimp.

With a thorough search he could _find_ the guy—pay him a ‘visit’.

He might even be able to find Jihoon’s father—pay him a ‘visit’ too. That worthless sack of shit.

Jihoon rattles on long enough for Seungcheol to actually start formulating a plan, and then interrupts himself midsentence to laugh drolly. “Sorry—I’m just rambling now.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Seungcheol assures him. “I enjoyed hearing it.”

Jihoon draws in one of his knees and goes slumping further into the couch, like a textbook example of teenage sullenness. He seems upset suddenly, gaze fixated on the floor and his mouth opening and closing as if he can’t find the proper words to fill it.

“What’s wrong?” Seungcheol ventures.

There’s no hiding the hurt in Jihoon’s eyes when he looks up. “You don’t have to sit so far away. I’m not gonna do anything.”

Seungcheol can’t rebuff him.

In two strides, he’s crossed the space between them to sink down beside Jihoon on the couch.

“It’s not like that Jihoon—I just—"

He’s ready to tell Jihoon he’s got it all wrong, that it’s got nothing to do with Seungcheol not trusting him and everything to do with Seungcheol not being so sure he can trust  _himself_.

He’s already broken half a dozen laws tonight alone, and it unnerves him to think of just what this attraction to Jihoon could mean for him, what other lines he’s in danger of crossing.

“I told you I don’t want an ‘out’—and I meant it. I just didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.” Seungcheol admits finally.

Jihoon watches him with round eyes, looking flushed and a little embarrassed. And _young_. 

Seungcheol can’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness towards him.

Jihoon stays hunched in his seat at first, but then shifts over so easily, so readily, when Seungcheol gives into his baser instincts and puts an arm around him.

He’s reaching for Jihoon before he realises what he’s doing, pulling him onto his lap and wrapping his arms around him. He’s not disappointed by the response. Jihoon’s brittle exterior chips away and he melts into the embrace, wiry arms looping around his neck and holding him in return as if  _Seungcheol_  is the one who needs it.

Maybe he _does_.

“This feels nice.” Jihoon says, a little quaver in his voice as he exhales and even more of the tautness seems to bleed from him.

His face is warm when he ducks it into Seungcheol’s shoulder; Seungcheol noses his way across the clinging small tendrils of dark hair at the crown of Jihoon's soap-scented head, breathes Jihoon in.

“Can—can I see it again?” Jihoon asks, forgetting to provide context. Seungcheol knows what he's talking about anyway.

“Of course.” He says, pushing up the sleeve of his shirt to display the ink on his wrist.

Jihoon tiptoes his fingers up Seungcheol’s arm to trace the black ink over his wrist, his skin warm and soft where he weaves his fingers between Seungcheol’s, feeling the calluses on his palms, rubbing gently at bruised knuckles.

For a long moment neither of them speaks, and Jihoon’s fingers trace patterns on Seungcheol’s skin, smooth circles over the backs of his hands. Their fingers and palms push against each other, gentle yielding pressure, and Seungcheol can’t remember feeling this connected to someone he’s barely touching.

“I used to imagine what it would be like— _finding_ you.” Jihoon finally says, twisting his hand to press their wrists together. He lets his eyes drift back to Seungcheol’s face. “For years I used to think—holy shit there’s someone out there waiting for me. There’s someone out there born to….”

“Born to _be_ with me.” Seungcheol finishes for him, hands slipping beneath the t-shirt and rubbing wide circles across Jihoon’s lower back. “Don’t be afraid to say it. It’s true.” He says. It's gentle and unassuming. It's simply a fact.

Jihoon nods quietly, a knowing look in his eyes. He leans his head against Seungcheol’s shoulder and submits to Seungcheol’s hands.

“I know.” he whispers.

Their faces are only inches apart, eyes locked on one another, and Seungcheol thinks it would be so very easy to lean in and kiss him. He has no idea whether it would be welcome or not, and it isn't the most appropriate time anyway.

“I gave up on that idea years ago. Figured I’d never be so lucky.” Seungcheol says, breaking the moment.

Jihoon swallows self-consciously before nodding. “Same. I read this article once, about how only 4% of the population ever meet their soulmate and I figured—that will _never_ be me. Just give up—stop looking.”

Seungcheol noses at his temple, pets his hair. “We can both stop looking. We’re here now.”

Jihoon straightens up then, staring at him with heavy eyes. “Where is _here_ though? What—what’s the plan? What am I supposed to do about--”

“One day at a time.” Seungcheol shushes him with a finger to his lips.  

“I’m off work tomorrow, but I got some things to clear at the station. There’s a lot we need to do, but most importantly, we’re going to register you with a doctor and get those bruises looked at.”

Jihoon scoffs in disdain at the suggestion.

“It’s happening.” Seungcheol answers anyway, wanting to be clear on this point. “You have to register with a health clinic and you _need_ a check-up.”

Jihoon’s face pulls into a scowl, fierce and sudden, “Are you always going to be like this—telling me what to do? Don’t I get a say at all?”  

Seungcheol can't help but roll his eyes. “You make it sound like I’m asking you to get your asshole bleached or something. I’m trying to look out for your _health_.”

Jihoon’s hackles go down, as abruptly as they’d gone up.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, folding in on himself a little. “But, you bought me food and brought me back to your nice home and you want to _do_ things for me. I’m just not used to men being so— _gentle_.”

Seungcheol sighs. “I’m not one of your John’s, Jihoon. I’m your soulmate.”

At that, Jihoon falls quiet.

There’s a lengthy silence before Seungcheol thinks to ask, “Where _have_ you been staying?”

“I share a room with a few guys. Why? Do you want me to go?” Jihoon asks. The open resignation in his voice makes Seungcheol scowl.

“What? No— _no_. Jesus, I’m just asking in case you had belongings there you wanted picked up.”

Jihoon shrugs sheepishly. “I don’t have much. Just one thing I wanted to keep. I can go over later and—”

“No.” Seungcheol shakes his head immediately, feeling a fervent rush of protectiveness.

He doesn’t want to sound patronizing or controlling, but he’s been around longer than Jihoon, he knows it will be dangerous for Jihoon to go himself.

“Tell me what it is, and _I’ll_ pick it up.”

“You can’t just walk in there—It’s--” Seungcheol's raised eyebrow says everything Jihoon is already thinking. “—oh wait, I guess you can. I keep forgetting you’re a cop.” He giggles sheepishly.

Seungcheol grins at him. He knows it won’t be a walk in the park infiltrating a cathouse, especially without back-up. But a badge and a gun go a long way in opening doors for you in this city.

“So, what is it?” Seungcheol prompts, after a few minutes have passed and Jihoon still hasn’t answered his question. “What do you want to pick up?”

“It’s—forget it. It’s not important.” Jihoon’s smile is off-balance, voice tinged with regret.

Whatever it is—it _is_ important.

* * *

 

When he leads Jihoon to the spare room the boy stares at him. "You're really letting me have the spare room?"

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. "Well, where else are you gonna sleep? The couch? It’s hardly comfortable and it squeaks every time you _breathe_ on it."

Jihoon grins at that, sharp and fleeting. “So, erm—where do _you_ sleep?”

“Last room on the _left_ —” Seungcheol answers—then pauses, right when he realizes what Jihoon’s about to suggest.

Seungcheol, for his part, would happily take things further with Jihoon, because the boy is nothing if not gorgeous with his stormy eyes and finely curving lips. He wants to familiarise himself with the shape of that body beneath those folds of cotton, to knows what it feels like to have this boy stripped bare and climaxing under him.

But that can’t happen.

Not tonight, _anyway_.

But then Jihoon reaches up to splay his hand against Seungcheol’s chest, pressing gently, his gaze dark and openly appreciative.

Seungcheol didn’t think a simple touch could make him hard, but apparently he was _wrong_.

“I’m still feeling a little cold. Maybe _you_ can warm me up?” Jihoon whispers, a blush darkening his cheeks, and Seungcheol is going to have to teach him a thing or two about subtlety because his dick has a mind of its own and he shouldn’t be held responsible for how it reacts to these gestures.  

Despite the itch in Seungcheol’s veins growing stronger, he refuses to claw at it.

“I’ll up the thermostat, and there’s extra blankets under the bed if you need them.” Seungcheol says, keeping his tone as neutral as he can.

He steps back and Jihoon lets his hand drop to the side, pouting, like that’s not the reaction he was expecting.

Seungcheol thinks that’s the end of that, except Jihoon doesn’t bloody play along.

"You sure you want to leave me unsupervised in your home?” Jihoon says, his smile sly. He tilts his head. “How can you be sure your stuff'll still be here in the morning?"

"That's up to you," Seungcheol says gruffly, leaning away.  

After another second, Jihoon leans back too, discomfort entering his body language for the first time, his shoulders hunching slightly.

“ _Officer Seungcheol_ …”

_Oh—fuck._

“Goodnight Jihoon.” Seungcheol interrupts hastily, “Get some sleep—it’s been a long day.”

Before Jihoon can stammer out anything that might be construed as a reply, Seungcheol is heading back down the corridor, and headed for his room.

His large empty room. _Alone_.

He’s kind of cold too come to think of it.

 _No_.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 

Seungcheol's stuff is all there in the morning.

In fact, there’s even a new addition—in Seungcheol's _bed_.

When Seungcheol rolls over, he finds a warm, small body tucked in with him. Instead of reaching for his gun—like his cop instincts would usually have him doing—he cracks one eye open, then the other.

Jihoon’s lying next to him on the bed, watching him eagerly, head poking out from under the covers with an impish smile on his face. The sunlight streaming in through the window casts an incongruous halo around his head.

Seungcheol squints at him, then peeks under the covers to find the boy completely naked and mutters, “Goddammit.”

Jihoon shushes him, reaches up until he’s framing Seungcheol’s face with his hands. “Don’t be mad with me. I just—I just really wanted to….”

It isn’t kissing, what happens next. Not yet. It’s more timid—more about closeness than actually making contact.

Seungcheol can feel the warmth of Jihoon’s breath soft against his lips, could lean in and taste him with the barest flicker of tongue. Only their lips brush at first, just dry and almost accidental, little grazes of heat.

Jihoon is the one who closes the final sliver of space between them, but he doesn't close his eyes as he leans in and catches Seungcheol's mouth with his own.

The kiss is too quick, leaving Seungcheol sleepily chasing after Jihoon’s lips, but then Jihoon is there again, a warm wet mouth, careful and sweet.

Seungcheol lets Jihoon set the pace, lets Jihoon suck on his bottom lip, lets him take the time to see Seungcheol isn't pushing him away, isn't putting up walls or miles between them. He just doesn't know how to let himself have this without it feeling like he’s taking advantage.

When Jihoon gingerly eases his tongue inside, Seungcheol groans, gives a hot little gasp right into his mouth. The kiss is wetter now, _hotter_ , and Jihoon is braver about allowing his hands to roam over Seungcheol’s chest as his tongue ventures deeper.

This is the point where Seungcheol’s meant to thank Jihoon and show him back to his room. But Jihoon’s trembling a little in his arms, and Seungcheol replays his hushed _‘Don’t be mad with me’_ in his head.

He can’t imagine the torment Jihoon must have put himself through, trying to psych himself up and convince himself to go through with sneaking into Seungcheol’s bedroom in the first place.

Seungcheol must still be half asleep, or he wouldn’t be letting Jihoon straddle him, wouldn’t be pulling the boy closer, kissing him gently over and over even though Jihoon grins at him between each kiss like he’s an idiot, which he absolutely is.

A fool for this boy who slips a hand between their bodies and takes hold of his cock, strokes it to hardness in an expert hand while Seungcheol squeezes his eyes shut and wars with his abysmal self-restraint.

Jihoon’s whining above him now, lips pink and eyes dazed, trying to grind down onto him.

Seungcheol forces himself to still him by taking hold of his hips.

“Just hear me out. This is—you don’t have to—” He stumbles over his words. He can’t fucking  _think_. “I should mention that I’m twice your age.”

“Oh, I know,” Jihoon says seriously. “It’s really, really hot.”

“ _Jihoon_ —” Seungcheol says. He can’t quite disguise the strangle in his voice. “You know I don’t expect anything from you either. You don’t have to do this.”

Jihoon reaches down with one hand to smooth the frown lines on Seungcheol’s forehead.  “I want it. You’re the first person I ever wanted to touch me. Even back in the alley—I—it’s like I knew. Please, I know I’m dirty—but could you just--”

Seungcheol stops him then, gripping Jihoon tightly and reversing their positions on the bed.

“God— _don’t_.” Seungcheol growls, furious. “Don’t say that about yourself.”

Jihoon blinks up at him in surprise, like he doesn’t now that he looks like heaven and feels like a dream, even his bruises beautiful in the low morning light.

Seungcheol softens his gaze and smiles down at him, pushes several wayward strands of hair off his face. “You’re not dirty Jihoon. You’re perfect.”

He feels Jihoon’s answering gasp as he leans down and finds his mouth.

Their lips slide together, and Seungcheol isn’t sure when tongues and teeth became an entire language, but somehow he knows everything Jihoon has been trying to tell him. How afraid he is. How excited he is too. How much he wants him. How this is what they’ve both been looking for, and it’s terrifying and beautiful all at once.

Jihoon’s chest is warm against his, his cock leaking against his stomach. Seungcheol shifts just a little, so their cocks can slide together, and he can’t imagine a more perfect feeling than the press of flesh against flesh.

Well—that’s not _entirely_ true.

His brain is helpfully informing him there are many other more pleasurable sensations to be sought between Jihoon’s legs. Jihoon’s intent on getting him there too—judging by the way he spreads his thighs and arches, trying to pull Seungcheol down to rest between them.

Groaning, Seungcheol levers himself up to fetch a few items from the bedside cabinet. Jihoon pushes himself up to follow—then realises what Seungcheol’s angling for and his head drops back to the pillow with a pleased sigh.

Seungcheol looks him dead in the eye as he uncaps the lube and starts smearing it over his rim. He’s slow about it, still allowing time for reconsideration even as he pushes one finger in, savouring the tight, gripping heat of Jihoon’s ass, feeling the way Jihoon’s stomach tenses under his other hand.

“Yes.” Jihoon moans, pushing down onto the intruding digit and there’s nothing slow about anything anymore.

Seungcheol rains kisses over the Jihoon's chest and stomach as he fingers him open, murmurs hopelessly sentimental things at him as he tears open a condom wrapper with too slippery fingers.

The only one he has at hand is ancient and expired—but it will have to do.

He gets up on his knees to roll the condom on, giving his cock a few tugs once it’s on. When he notices that Jihoon is leaning up on his elbows to watch, his eyes on Seungcheol’s hand and his lips parted, Seungcheol chuckles and slows his strokes.

Jihoon’s eyes flit up to his, and he scoffs, “Show off.”

Seungcheol grins and hitches one of Jihoon’s legs over his shoulder, parting his ass cheeks with his hand and his hole with the pad of his thumb. Jihoon reaches down to guide him in and keeps his fingers wrapped around Seungcheol’s cock through every stutter and complete stop of Seungcheol’s entry.

It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture, and Seungcheol ducks his head down to press a kiss to Jihoon’s forehead. He leaves his lips there, breathing in the warmth and the moisture of Jihoon’s skin as he pushes in to the hilt.

Jihoon gasps as he bottoms out, pleading little sounds spilling out of him. But when Seungcheol opens his eyes, there’s nothing on Jihoon’s face but amazement and pure lust.

“You okay?” Seungcheol asks. He has to.

Jihoon presses his forehead to Seungcheol’s jaw, swallows hard and says, “Yes. Fuck me. Please, Seungcheol!” damn near begging.

Seungcheol’s baser instincts kick in and he starts thrusting.

The noises that Jihoon makes, his movements, the way his body responds to Seungcheol’s all guide Seungcheol’s rhythm.

Thank God for that.

Seungcheol isn’t entirely capable of making informed decisions with Jihoon writhing against him, his fingers digging into the swell of Seungcheol’s ass in encouragement, his right leg lifted so that Seungcheol can push in deeper.

Jihoon looks a bit dazed, his eyelids heavy and his mouth hanging open. The only sound he makes is the  _hah hah hah_  of breath being pushed out of him every time Seungcheol thrusts, as if he’s not quite cognizant enough to make use of his vocal cords.

“ _Seungcheol_.” It seems so surreal that it doesn’t register at first when Jihoon grips at his face and begs him. “Please, oh fuck. I’m so close already. You’re gonna make me come, I’m so—”

“Not yet,” Seungcheol tells him, and kisses his cheek. “Not yet baby.”

Seungcheol leans back and slows his pace, pushing Jihoon’s knees up so he’s almost bent in half under him, and then he makes the mistake of glancing down. A fierce shiver wracks his body when he sees his cock plunging into Jihoon’s ass.

“Jihoon, Jihoon, Jihoon,” he finds himself grunting.

The sight of his thick cock head disappearing into that hole, over and over is enough to bring Seungcheol too close to the edge too fast, and he’s going to have to explain to Jihoon that it’s been a while, and usually it’s not like this. He does have stamina. _Really_.

And an amazingly short refractory period.

He’ll explain when he can form coherent sentences again, when Jihoon’s tight ass isn’t squeezing the life out of his dick.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Jihoon pants, breathing ragged and uneven. His fingers are clawing at Seungcheol’s shoulders, and Seungcheol knows he’s a second away from gluing them together with glossy white cum.

Seungcheol pumps his hips as fast as he’s able, wraps a hand around Jihoon’s cock and rides out their rhythm in long, sharp strokes.

When he comes, Jihoon spills between their stomachs and shouts Seungcheol’s name. It’s easily the best sound in the world.

Seungcheol plunges his tongue into Jihoon’s mouth one more time, lifting his hips in a final thrust, and comes with a groan he knows the neighbours _got_ to have heard.

* * *

 

For a long time, they stay that way, Seungcheol still buried inside Jihoon, and Jihoon a warm, content weight under him until, reluctantly, Seungcheol extricates himself just enough to discreetly dispose of the condom.

After, Seungcheol grabs the corner of the sheet and wipes the worst of the stickiness away, then they roll together so Jihoon’s laying on top, sticky and warm, their legs tangled.

Seungcheol pets him, running his hand the length of the boy's spine, feeling the sharpness of his shoulder blades and the still-sturdy musculature of his back. Jihoon in turn, tangles elegant fingers in his hair, then trace the muscles in his torso.

Seungcheol likes the way they fit together here, like this. Perfect puzzle pieces.

He thinks this might be what love feels like.

"Sorry if I was a little rusty. It’s been a while." Seungcheol says into Jihoon's hair.

“No—it was amazing.” Jihoon answers, voice hushed and sincere. There's something like wonder on his face and in the protective placement of his arms over Seungcheol’s heart.

* * *

 

Seungcheol could happily spend the rest of the day doing nothing but lying there, drowsing and petting over Jihoon, but reality makes him come back down to Earth anyway.

He rolls out of bed, careful not to disturb Jihoon, and pads into the bathroom to shower and change.

He's buckling up his belt when Jihoon shifts sluggishly under the blankets.

“Cheol?” It's barely audible, but Seungcheol chooses to interpret it as a question about where he’s headed.

“Going out for a bit, to take care of a few things. Go back to sleep Hoonie, I’ll be back soon.”

Jihoon frowns as he pulls himself up to sit straighter. Seungcheol puts a hand against his bare chest and leaves it there. He can feel Jihoon's heart racing under his palm.

“Stay put.” He says, his voice gentle. “I’ll be back soon. There’s food in the fridge—television. Just eat, drink, sleep, relax—wait for me. Okay?”

Surprisingly, Jihoon manages a small smile. “Okay.”

* * *

 

Seungcheol’s co-workers don’t bat an eye when he shows up at the station unscheduled; he’s always been known to work overtime and drag himself in on his weekends off. The anonymity works for him, especially now as he sits down at his desk and pulls up Jihoon’s criminal record.

Thankfully there isn’t too much to deal with—just a single arrest for vandalism and a few charges for public nuisance.

Seungcheol usually holds strong opinions about tampering with official records, but it only takes a few clicks to slightly alter the D/O/B and swap out one mug shot for another—and Jihoon’s details shouldn’t ping up to anyone doing a background check in the future.

With that done, he loiters about the station for a bit—trying to make it seem unpremeditated when he asks an officer from the sex crimes unit about activity in the area.

The man blabbers on about his hefty case load, but Seungcheol listens patiently and hums at appropriate intervals as the officer tells him about is patrol route, an upcoming sting operation and who he suspects controls the area.

The information he gets, coupled with Jihoon’s stories is enough to narrow down a location or two.

* * *

 

Seungcheol doesn’t have to stake out the cathouse, or approach under cover of darkness. The main entrance to the run-down apartment block is unguarded, and the stairway up is empty but for a few drunkards and several smashed bottles.

Seungcheol doesn’t know whether that indicates a pimp in possession of overblown confidence or a pimp who simply doesn’t care whether his underhanded dealings are uncovered.

One thing has become clear to him however, after his many years on the force; prostitutes will almost always return to their pimp. Whether it be out of loyalty, fear, manipulation or simply just routine—sadly, a rare few of them ever square up and move on.

Seungcheol knows this—knows he doesn’t want there to be any reason for Jihoon to return here.

The guy who answers the door is sporting a taped nose and a split lip. He only opens the door part way—and Seungcheol has to stick his boot in the gap to make sure he doesn’t slam it in his face when he pulls out his badge and say, “Police.”

“Oh, shit—” The guy reacts just as Seungcheol expects him to, which is to say—he tries to slam the door in Seungcheol’s face.

Seungcheol’s faster and pushes it in—sending the guy sprawling. He’s got his gun drawn and aimed at the other occupants of the room in a heartbeat—but hesitates when he looks them over.

There’s five of them, including the guy now cowering on the floor—and they’re not the big, hulking brutes he was expecting—they’re scrawny, rumpled looking teens.

None of them are armed and they don’t make an attempt to arm themselves either—they just huddle together in the corner anxiously, hands in the air—like they’re been through this before.

 _They must all be part of the same stable_ —Seungcheol thinks.  

Seungcheol pushes the door shut behind him and puts his gun away; they’re no danger to him.

“Keep your hands up in the air where I can see them, don’t do anything stupid and I won’t haul any of you in.” He speaks, failing to make eye contact with a single, skittish one of them.

God—they’re so fucking _young._

Seungcheol surveys the apartment—determines that ‘apartment’ is a generous description.

The place is a _hovel_.

It doesn't even have rooms, and not in a chic studio apartment way. Everything's crammed together: kitchenette, toilet, beds. Takeaway boxes and newspapers are piled in one corner and the three beds he spots are rusty metal frames with stained bedclothes.  

Six guys share this place. _Six_.

“Where does Jihoon sleep?” He asks, sweeping his eyes over the five faces.

There’s an odd little pause where the five boys share a look, then one of them says, “Over there,” pointing at a curtained corner of the room.

Seungcheol pads over and shoves the curtain aside, throat seizing at the sight that greets him.

There’s a single bed in the corner, with a thin pillow and a thinner looking duvet. There’s a chair doubling as a nightstand with a few clothes draped over it and a lamp seated on top. No furniture to speak of—just some tattered looking posters and soft, twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the window frame in some attempt to make this corner of hell look homely.

No wonder Jihoon was blown away with his middle-class lifestyle.

Seungcheol can’t imagine there’s anything of value here—anything Jihoon wants to keep, but he checks the usual hiding spots anyway; under the bed, under the pillow—a loose brick or two along the wall. He finds what he’s looking for soon enough tucked between the mattress and the wire frame; a small plastic bag with a brown envelope.

There’s a single photograph inside, a little creased around the edges but otherwise lovingly preserved, of a small boy standing with a woman outside a house. The boy’s blonde hair is neatly combed, his face bright and happy with a smile. He holds onto the woman with one hand. His other clinging to a strangely shaped stuffed animal that, after a solid minute of consideration, Seungcheol finally decides is a unicorn.

Jihoon likes unicorns and fairy lights and art and music; _escapism_.

“Where is he?” One of the boys speak up.

Seungcheol shoots him a sharp look even as he makes the pictures disappear from sight.

The boy’s standing a good distance away, but prostitutes have got sharper eyes than most, and Seungcheol can't afford any of them to see what he’s just pocketed.  

“He’s in lock up, under arrest.” He answers sternly.

The guy swallows, his face gone pale, “W-why? What did he do?”

Seungcheol looks at him carefully, face deliberately blank.

He doesn’t answer the question, instead he grabs his wallet, fishes out five twenties’ and sets them down on a stool before he walks out.

* * *

 

Jihoon’s waiting for him when he gets back, curled up on one edge of the couch, eyes locked on the door—like he’s been watching it, anticipating Seungcheol’s return.

“What took you so long?” He huffs the second Seungcheol steps through the doorway.

Seungcheol frowns and pushes the door shut behind him. He couldn’t have been gone more than three hours. “I took a small detour on my way back from the station.”

“Oh, Great. _Thanks_. You could have said something.” Jihoon mutters, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

He looks worn down like an old eraser, and Seungcheol decides to take pity on him by keeping his tone gentle.

“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t return? To my own home? To _you_?”

Jihoon’s lips quirk upwards into a self-effacing smile. “I don’t know. People I _want_ to hang around, usually don’t.” He pulls his feet underneath him and curls into a small, shivering ball.

Seungcheol wants to run a hand through his hair and tell him he’s sorry. God, he’s so _sorry_. He should’ve known to call ahead, told him he would be back later.

He crosses the room and settles next to Jihoon on the couch, lays a steadying hand on his shoulder and squeezes, watching Jihoon’s lashes drop, excruciatingly fragile. “I’m sorry Jihoon, I’ll call next time. I promise.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

He looks away, engrossed in some spot on the far side of the room. Seungcheol gives him a minute before he gently turns Jihoon's face to look at him. He looks wounded and Seungcheol hates that he's the reason for it.

“The _reason_ I detoured—was to pick something up for you.” Seungcheol says, pulling the envelope out of his jacket pocket and handing it over.

Jihoon must recognise it, because he’s reaching for it immediately, making a small disbelieving noise. “How did you—”

 _“I’m a cop.”_ Seungcheol interjects with a smile. “Finding stuff people try to hide is in my job description.”

With great care Jihoon opens the envelope and withdraws the picture, his lips twisting into a bittersweet smile.

“Your mother?” Seungcheol asks, scooting over to get a better look.

Jihoon nods, thumbing the edge of the print. “It’s the only photo I have of her.” He says, voice hoarse with emotion. He pauses to clear his throat, “Sometimes I forget what she looks like, and I just have to _look_ at it—to remind myself.”

Seungcheol shifts his gaze away, to the small side table next to the couch.

There’s a picture frame displayed there, with a photograph of him and his ex-wife on some boring vacation. She looks miserable, _he_ looks miserable and he doesn’t know why he still keeps that shit—why he’s never thrown it out.

Some memories are worth clinging too—some just aren’t.

Uncapping the back of the frame and tossing the picture out, he leans over to ease the photograph out of Jihoon’s hand, and carefully holding it at the edges—he slides it into the now empty picture frame.

“There,” Seungcheol says, recapping the frame and setting it down on the table once more. He pulls Jihoon close, slipping a hand behind around his waist to cradle him. “Now you can be reminded of her every day.”

Jihoon looks up at him with his dark eyes and says, altogether too sincerely, “Thank you, Cheol.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Continuation of the Jicheol week fic. Got a good response and ppl wanted me to continue so here you go.  
> 2) I know some ppl wanted Jihoon POV, but maybe down the line. I just wanted to get Seungcheol's thoughts down.  
> 3) Hope the smut was satisfying, I was trying to make it sweet and needy, don't know how well that came across. But they're desperate for each other, having waited for so long.  
> 4) Title based on Lyrics from 'Corduroy' by Pearl Jam, which I listened to non stop writing this. Awesome, awesome tune.[Pearl Jam-Corduroy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S73ypK3As8I)  
> 5) Hope you enjoy this update! Feedback always appreciated :)


End file.
